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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24488344">screw the classics, and screw you for believing in them</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachcitt/pseuds/peachcitt'>peachcitt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(they're students this time), Alternate Universe - High School, Blood and Injury, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner Are Best Friends, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Minor Injuries, and the gays deserve to be happy, god im so glad that's a tag, in which the rituals are intricate, jonmartin if you squint, listen daisy gets into a couple fights and blood may or may not be a motif, what of it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:20:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,816</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24488344</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachcitt/pseuds/peachcitt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just “Daisy, Daisy, Daisy” over and over until her name stopped sounding like a name, like a word, and it was just sound to fill the silence so that neither of them would have to talk about the way Basira’s touch lingered each time she wiped the blood away or the way Daisy would always sit so that her knees touched Basira’s even though they were on the floor and there was more than enough room for them to breathe different air.</p><p>or</p><p>basira gives daisy some classic tragedies. daisy has no idea what they mean, until she does</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>screw the classics, and screw you for believing in them</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>enjoy :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were a lot of things Daisy didn’t like about herself.</p><p>She wasn’t smart, not really. She wasn’t in any honors classes, and she hadn’t gotten an A on anything since she was eight. She got mad easy. Her fuse was as short as a bump on the shoulder, and she was liable to beat the tar out of anyone who so much as breathed wrong in her direction. She couldn’t talk nice, and sometimes, she didn’t talk at all. She never knew what to say, and so she didn’t say anything. Sometimes not saying anything was worse than anything else anyone could do, but she could never pick out the right words, never ever.</p><p>She thought about that sometimes, but most of the time, she just didn’t think at all. It was an active choice for her, to not think, and that was another thing that she didn’t like about herself.</p><p>Because it led to times like these, where she’d just beat up some poor bastard to a pulp because he’d looked at her for too long at the crosswalk, and she was back at Basira’s place, sitting and not thinking as Basira’s hands touched her and felt her and healed her. The bastard had gotten some swings in, too - good for him. Bad for Daisy’s no-thinking habit.</p><p>Basira touched her gentle fingers to Daisy’s cheek, feeling over the swollen red skin all around her eye. Her fingers moved down to the blood still dripping down Daisy’s nose, dribbling over the split in her lip.</p><p>“Daisy, Daisy, Daisy,” Basira said, soft and smooth, Daisy’s blood on her fingers. And Daisy stared at it - stared at it like she could make it mean something, make that violent, sticky red on Basira’s healing hands mean something like love. But then Basira wiped her fingers on the tissues beside them, and most of the red was gone. There was still some beneath her nails, Daisy knew, clinging to her skin and her cuticles like any part of Daisy should, but later when they would sit down on Basira’s squishy brown couch and watch a bad horror movie from the 80s, Basira would pick at the stubborn rust around her nails and wipe it absently on her pant leg and on Saturday, when her parents did her laundry, it would be gone. Until the next time Daisy bled, until the next time Basira let herself get dirty.</p><p>Basira pressed a cold rag to Daisy’s throbbing nose, wiping away the blood, and Daisy felt herself wince despite herself. </p><p>Most guys she fought didn’t like to hit girls, much less hit girls in the face. They had this thing, about fighting ladies. But all the other guys, the smart guys, knew from the first hit that Daisy was no lady. This bastard, apparently, was one of the smart ones. Daisy had gotten him sharp in the jaw, and he’d caught himself from falling, and he’d looked at her, and he’d known. His first aim was straight for her eye.</p><p>The rag was red with her blood, now, and Basira folded it neatly and put it to the side. She moved her attention away from Daisy’s face and to her hands, where her knuckles were raw and red and bloody. It was unclear how much of the blood was hers.</p><p>And Daisy could feel it, of course. Basira’s disappointment. That was another thing she didn’t like much about herself, that she could disappoint Basira over and over again and never seem to be able to quit it. She deserved a good and proper tongue-lashing - God knows fist-lashings had never worked on her, no matter how thorough.</p><p>But Basira had given up on scoldings somewhere in year nine. Now it was just the looks, the gentle and thorough clean-ups after. It was the ‘Daisy, Daisy, Daisy’s, over and over. Like her name conveyed some sort of deeper meaning that she expected Daisy to be able to understand. Like if she repeated it enough, it would become a sort of prayer that God would listen to, that He would enact to make Daisy put her fists away for once in her pitiful life. It was just “Daisy, Daisy, Daisy” over and over until her name stopped sounding like a name, like a word, and it was just sound to fill the silence so that neither of them would have to talk about the way Basira’s touch lingered each time she wiped the blood away or the way Daisy would always sit so that her knees touched Basira’s even though they were on the floor and there was more than enough room for them to breathe different air.</p><p>“Daisy, Daisy, Daisy,” Basira said, and Daisy closed her eyes.</p><p>
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</p><p>If Daisy had to pinpoint the time that she and Jon became what some would call friends, it wouldn’t make sense. He’d been Basira’s friend first, one of her snooty smart people friends. Because Basira was nicer than Daisy, softer than Daisy, and she could have friends outside of people that you throw fists at every week just to see who bleeds faster. But Jon had seemed off to Daisy. Something about him made her corner him late after school - he was a library assistant, always left school later than everyone else.</p><p>“Basira likes you,” she’d said, and he’d narrowed his eyes at her.</p><p>“Well,” he’d said, stiff and guarded, “I suppose. We have a couple of classes together.” She was glad he’d understood what she meant. That didn’t make her like him any more.</p><p>“There’s something off about you,” she said, and he’d studied her with those dark eyes of his, and she hadn’t liked that feeling, not one bit.</p><p>“I’d wager there’s something off about you, too,” he’d replied, and Daisy didn’t quite remember swinging, but she did remember standing over Jon after his stick-thin body had hit the pavement. He’d probably never been in a fight in his life, and seemed quite surprised to be on the ground. He touched his knobby fingers to the reddening skin by eye, eyebrows raised and mouth agape. He’d looked at her then, and he’d said, “you punched me,” as if this fact was not self-evident and needed some clarification.</p><p>“Not real bright, are you, kid?” she’d replied, and he’d laughed. A real stupid sort of laugh - the kind of laugh that sounded fake enough to be real. Daisy had stared at him. “You have guts,” she said, and he wiped his eyes, careful of the new shiner Daisy had just given him. Daisy helped him stand.</p><p>“Well. Not really,” he said with a shrug. And now they were friends.</p><p>Didn’t make much sense at all.</p><p>But sometimes Jon was easier than Basira. He didn’t have any of Basira’s softness - he was all edges and sharp lines. His elbows were basically knives, and his hips were edged with broken glass. He was gangly and awkward, and he was nothing like Basira at all.</p><p>They wouldn’t really plan to get together and hang out, but they’d end up finding each other at the neighborhood playground at stupid hours at night, and they’d sit on the swingset or on top of the monkey bars. Sometimes they’d talk. Sometimes they wouldn’t. Sometimes it was just a game of asking questions they knew would piss each other off, like tonight.</p><p>“You and Georgie?” Daisy asked, gathering a handful of the dusty pebbles that littered the playground and throwing them back down at the ground as hard as she could, one at a time, rocking back and forth on the swing.</p><p>Jon dug his toe into the pebbles, making a face where he squinted his eyes and wrinkled up his nose and twisted his lips to the side. “Done for.”</p><p>“Reason?”</p><p>“I don’t have to tell you that,” he snapped. Daisy waited. “Saw her snogging Melanie during study hall. Not her fault, really. Or Melanie’s, or mine. Just sort of happened, she said.”</p><p>Daisy threw a pebble hard at the ground. It made a <em> plunk </em>sort of sound, soft and unassuming. “You want me to beat her up?”</p><p>Jon let out a startled sort of laugh, the kind where each syllable of it was pronounced and accounted for. “I’m not mad, Daisy.”</p><p>She threw another pebble, this time at the monkey bars. It hit the metal hard, ricocheting over in the direction of the slides. It made less of a <em> plunk </em> and more of a <em> plink </em>sound. “Why not?”</p><p>“We’ve been done for a while, I think,” Jon said with a shrug. He never really got mad, not that Daisy had seen. She wondered what it would take, if she’d ever find out. Probably not. Jon looked over to her, raising an eyebrow. “You and Basira?”</p><p>“Shove off,” Daisy snarled, hurling another pebble at the monkey bars. It missed. Jon knew nothing happened, nothing ever did.</p><p>“She said you got into a fight the other day.”</p><p>“I get into a fight every day.”</p><p>“Yeah, well.” He stopped, giving her one of his stupid noncomittal shrugs. He always did that, just said words even though they didn’t mean anything, really. He found words to say even though they wouldn’t do anything, even though saying them wouldn’t make anything happen either way. </p><p>“Yeah, well,” Daisy mimicked, “it was just another fight with a poor bastard who was asking for it.” She flexed her hands, where her knuckles burned still. Her tongue darted out to brush against where the scab from the split was still healing. “He got a few in, but I was better.”</p><p>“Basira patch you up again?”</p><p>Daisy threw another pebble, and her arm ached with the force of it. “Shove <em> off, </em>Jon. You know she did.”</p><p>“Yeah, maybe,” he said, but he didn’t apologize because he was Jon, and apologizing for him was like breaking teeth. And he probably didn’t see anything to apologize for. And if he apologized, Daisy might actually break his teeth.</p><p>“You two’ll be alright, I think,” Jon said once Daisy’s hands were empty and they’d been sitting under the night for a few full and heavy minutes. </p><p>Daisy scooped up another handful of pebbles, sifting them through her dirty fingers. “Who gives a toss what you think,” she replied.</p><p>“Good point,” Jon replied with one of his small, stupid laughs. “Still, though. It’s you and Basira. Of course you’ll be alright.”</p><p>Daisy threw the rest of the pebbles in her hand at him.</p><p>
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</p><p>-</p><p>
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</p><p>Basira read a lot. She read books that they weren’t even required to read for school, and she read them for fun.</p><p>Daisy couldn’t read very fast - the words all kind of blurred together - and if the letters were too small, it would give her a headache. She didn’t get the appeal, but Basira could read for hours and hours, and it was like she was hungry for it. Like her eyes had turned into mouths and she was eating up everything those books could give her so that she could chew it and swallow it down into herself.</p><p>Sometimes she would read, out loud, to Daisy. She’d go over to Basira’s place on lazy Saturday afternoons, and say hi to Basira’s nice parents that were always too nice to her, even when she had black eyes and blood on her hands. And she’d go back into Basira’s room, filled with books and pillows and blankets and all of the other soft things that Basira liked to hide in, and Basira would pat the bed beside her, like she’d been expecting Daisy to come even though Daisy hadn’t said anything about coming.</p><p>And Basira would read to her. She read all kinds of things, but it was obvious what she liked to read to Daisy the most. All of those old classic books - Dickens, Wilde, Shelley, Austen, Brontë. The language was all flowery and soft, no hard punches and no surprises. And Basira would read them in her gentle voice, that voice that had no sharp edges, that voice that Daisy would gladly bury herself in if she ever got the chance.</p><p>It was Wilde today. Something about a picture and a man. </p><p>Daisy tried to listen - she always tried. But she’d end up laying back on Basira’s bed, taking in that scent of lavender and wood smoke that seeped into everything Basira owned, and closing her eyes. She’d listen to the story until the words blurred together into sounds, just soft, gentle sounds that Basira spoke like she was cradling those sounds in her hands. And Daisy would imagine those hands holding her instead.</p><p>Basira went quiet, and Daisy opened her eyes. She turned her head over to Basira, who was sitting upright beside her, her back pressed against the headboard.</p><p>“Did you know,” she said softly, her eyes not meeting Daisy’s, “that Oscar Wilde liked men?” She didn’t wait for Daisy to answer. “It’s fascinating, really - Wilde was well known for being promiscuous and sleeping around. Everyone knew he took on male lovers, but eventually he took on the wrong male lover - the son of some rich, conservative sort of guy. The guy had Wilde arrested - for indecency, or something stupidly Victorian like that.”</p><p>Listening to Basira talk was different than listening to Basira read a story. The words never blurred together. Daisy always listened.</p><p>“Wilde was at the height of his career,” Basira continued, “but that scandal changed him. After all was said and done, he didn’t write anymore. He died not long after.”</p><p>“Poor bastard,” Daisy said, trying not to think too hard about what it meant, about why Basira was telling her this.</p><p>Basira was quiet for a moment. “I wonder, sometimes. About what he would’ve written if he had never been arrested.”</p><p>“No way to know,” Daisy said, and Basira hummed. She stared down at the book. Daisy thought that if she knew what to say, now would be a good time to say it. But then Basira cleared her throat, opened the book again, and continued on, and Daisy closed her eyes again.</p><p>
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</p><p>“She’s started telling me stories,” Daisy said, bursting into the library and directing her words to the front desk. Jon jumped nearly out of his skin, and he snapped his head over to look at her, glaring at her.</p><p>“Daisy? Don’t you have class right now-”</p><p>“Stupid stories,” she continued, walking up to the front desk. There was a soft-looking boy standing a couple feet away from Jon, doughy face red, and Daisy narrowed her eyes at him. She looked over at Jon. “Who’s this bastard?”</p><p>“His name is Martin,” Jon said, all testy like, and he folded his arms across his chest. “He’s a new library assistant, so he’s not skipping class right now, unlike <em> some people.” </em></p><p>“Oh, shove off, Jon,” Daisy said, rolling her eyes. “It’s only maths I’m skipping.”</p><p>Jon, no matter how snooty of a good-student he was, was not a fan of maths. He visibly relaxed. “Oh, well, that’s fine, I suppose.”</p><p>“It’s not, though?” Martin, the apparently new library assistant, said, and Daisy turned to him. He was big, taller than Daisy, but not in the sort of way that conveyed he would be any good in a fight. He looked like with one well-aimed punch, he’d be down for good. </p><p>“You want to get beat, teacher’s pet?” Daisy asked, and Martin recoiled.</p><p>“I’d rather not,” he replied.</p><p>“Beating Martin is off-limits,” Jon said. Daisy raised her eyebrows. Martin stared, cheeks pink. Jon cleared his throat. “There’s too many shelves for me to organize by myself. Incapacitating Martin would not be ideal for efficiency.” </p><p>“Whatever,” Daisy said, rolling her eyes. Jon was positively thick, and that was his business to deal with. They’d talk about it eventually, she supposed, but now was not the time for that. “Anyway, this is important.” She jerked her chin at Martin. “Get lost, teacher’s pet.”</p><p>“I’m not a-” Martin started, and then stopped. He sighed. “I’ll go. To the Dewey-decimals, I suppose.” He went.</p><p>Jon watched him go, and then turned his dark gaze back on Daisy. “Why are you here, Daisy?”</p><p>“She’s started telling me stories,” Daisy repeated.</p><p>Jon raised his eyebrows. “What kind of stories?”</p><p>“About Oscar Wilde dying. About some Greek bloke - Achilles - and his lover Patroclus dying. About Sappho and being forgotten and being remembered at the same time - I don’t know. About being lost and being dead, and it means something, I know it does,” Daisy said, and she was rambling, which was. It was not something she did <em> often, </em> but Basira had dumped another tragedy on her during passing period, and Daisy just <em> wanted to understand. </em></p><p>“You think she’s trying to tell you something?” Jon asked, like an idiot. Daisy resisted the urge to reach over the counter and throttle him.</p><p><em> “Yeah, </em>Jon, she’s trying to tell me something, but we’re both too stupid to figure it out, apparently.”</p><p>“Well,” Jon said, making a huge deal out of taking a breath in and letting it out as he looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe,” he said, and there was something about the way he said it that made Daisy reach over the counter and grab the neck of his stupid sweater with both fists, yanking him and nearly pressing their noses together.</p><p>“I’m <em> losing </em> her,” she said, her voice a growl. “I can feel it, and I haven’t got a bloody clue why except for these stories, and you. Are not. <em> Helping.” </em></p><p>“Daisy,” Jon said, voice strangled but still somehow certain, “you know why.”</p><p>Daisy shoved him back, and he stumbled, smoothing down his stupid sweater. “I don’t,” she said because she wasn’t thinking about it. She had promised herself not to think about it.</p><p>“You do,” Jon insisted, standing too far back for Daisy to grab him. “You know you do.”</p><p>“Screw you, Jon,” Daisy spat, and he gave her one of those stupid smiles, like he could see into her head and he knew what she actually meant.</p><p>“Yeah, okay, Daisy,” he said, and she stormed out of the library.</p><p>
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</p><p>It was easy to find some prick to pick a fight with when anyone was fair game. That was something Daisy had learned quite early. She didn’t like it, that she could stalk around the school, set her eyes on the nearest stoner kid skipping class to get his fix, and decide without a second thought that he needed her fist in his gut.</p><p>He hadn’t smoked yet, so he wasn’t all easy and relaxed like he would’ve been if she’d caught him a few minutes later. He had some fight in him, and she was glad for it. It wasn’t a lot of fight, but it was enough to take some of the buzz out of her veins.</p><p>“Why?” he asked, bruising and bleeding after she’d finished with him. His eyes were already swelling up.</p><p>Daisy looked down. His stash had fallen out of his pockets during the fight. She kicked it back over to him. “Gave you a reason to smoke,” she replied. She wiped the blood from her nose on the back of her hand. “You’re welcome.”</p><p>“Screw you,” he said, but he picked up his stash anyway.</p><p>
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</p><p>She went straight to Basira’s. Her parents were out at work, but Daisy knew where they kept the spare key. She let herself in and went straight into Basira’s room, flopping down on the bed. She kept her hands on her stomach though, mindful of the blood. </p><p>Her lip had split again. Judging by how she could taste copper at the back of her throat, her nose had bled even more, too.</p><p>A couple of hours passed, and then Basira was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, her bag slung over her shoulder. She didn’t seem surprised to see Daisy, but her eyebrows furrowed and her head tilted to the side and she said her quiet “Daisy, Daisy, Daisy.”</p><p>Daisy sat up. “I didn’t get blood on your blankets,” she said, and Basira nodded.</p><p>She walked into the bedroom, dropping her bag by the foot of the bed, and then kneeling down to reach under the bed for the first aid kit she kept there, just for Daisy. And she brought the kit up to the bed, and she sat down in front of Daisy, and Daisy shifted so that their knees were touching.</p><p>“Who was it this time?” Basira asked, using the antiseptic wipes to clean off Daisy’s knuckles, her fingers gentle and lingering.</p><p>“Some pothead at school. Didn’t catch his name.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“He was there.”</p><p>“Daisy, Daisy, Daisy.”</p><p>They were quiet, and Daisy watched Basira clean off the blood, watched her push back her disappointment and everything else she always pushed back. When Basira cleaned off the blood from Daisy’s nose and mouth, she stopped, brushing a featherlight touch over the tender part of her lip.</p><p>“You split your lip again,” she said, and Daisy was trying so hard not to think about that touch, but she could still feel it, and Jon - stupid Jon - was loud in her head. <em> You know why. You know you do. </em></p><p>“Yeah,” Daisy said. “Not too bad.”</p><p>Basira hummed.</p><p>She pulled away, packing up the first aid kit. She got up from her spot on the bed, kneeling down once more to put the first aid kit away. Before she could climb back on the bed so that they could lay back and talk about nothing and ignore everything that they weren’t thinking or talking about, Daisy shifted, moving so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs bracketing Basira where she was kneeling.</p><p>Basira looked up at her, her eyebrows raising just the slightest. “Daisy?” she asked, voice soft.</p><p>“You keep on telling me stories,” Daisy said, and Basira sat back on her heels. Her expression didn’t change, and Daisy knew it was because she was going through great lengths not to let anything spill out. “They mean something.”</p><p>“They’re classics,” Basira said. She looked down at Daisy’s thigh, her shoulders going up to her ears before going back down. “All stories mean something.”</p><p>“You know I’m not as smart as you, Basira,” Daisy said, and there was something weird happening in her stomach, in her chest, in her throat. “I won’t know what anything means until you tell me.”</p><p>“You’re plenty smart,” Basira said, her eyes snapping up to look at Daisy and glare at her a little bit. She hated when Daisy said something mean about herself, no matter how true it was.</p><p>“Basira,” Daisy said, and she tore her eyes away from her, staring up at the ceiling and trying to figure out what to say. “We’re not the same,” she finally said, talking to the ceiling because that was easier, somehow. “And you’ve been telling me these stories, these stories about people dying and being unhappy, and it feels like you’re leaving me. And I can’t…” She trailed off, stopping herself from saying something embarrassing. She shook her head, looking back down at Basira. </p><p>“You want to talk about this?” Basira asked, like that was somehow unbelievable, and maybe it was, a little bit. Daisy would rather fight her way through any conversation, but this was Basira. Fists and bruises didn’t belong anywhere near her.</p><p>“I’m not moving until we do,” Daisy said, and Basira chewed on the inside of her cheek. She looked down at the soft carpet.</p><p>“They’re hard to find,” she said softly, to the carpet. “Happy stories about people like… people like me.”</p><p>And, yeah, Daisy had known. She’d known all along.</p><p>“It’s all tragedy,” Basira continued, shaking her head. “And I don’t… I can’t imagine myself ending any other way.”</p><p>“You’re not them,” Daisy said, and she could feel the anger buzzing through her veins, throbbing at her bruises and itching at her scabs.</p><p>Basira shook her head, helpless. She still wasn’t looking at Daisy.</p><p><em> “I’m </em>not them.”</p><p>She finally looked up, her eyes wide in surprise. Maybe she’d known, too, but it was a different thing to hear someone admit it out loud. “You-”</p><p>And Daisy knew she should’ve said more words, should’ve made them mean something, but she was angry. She was angry at herself, like she always was. She was angry at Basira, for making it all a puzzle and for hating a part of herself when everything about her was soft and good and pure. And she was angry at those damn classics Basira read, those stupid stories that didn’t do anyone any good - or at least didn’t do <em> her </em>any good in this moment, right now. </p><p>“Screw ancient tragedies,” she said, and she grabbed Basira’s face with both hands, and she pulled her up at the same time she leaned down, and she slammed her lips onto Basira’s.</p><p>It should’ve been soft, like what Basira deserved. But Daisy didn’t know how to do soft, not yet. And so her lips were crashing against Basira’s, and her nails were digging into Basira’s soft skin, and there was teeth and tongue and blood - her split lip had opened again.</p><p>But Basira didn’t seem to mind too much, and Daisy thought about it - let herself think about it even though thoughts at the moment were difficult to hang on to because Basira’s nose was pressing into her cheek, and her breath was hot on Daisy’s face. But still, the thought was there as she tasted her own blood in Basira’s mouth. Basira didn’t like being dirty, but she never complained about Daisy, about the blood and the dirt that she inevitably brought it. It was only ever the ‘Daisy, Daisy, Daisy’s, the gentle clean ups, the lingering touches.</p><p>And now Basira was saying “Daisy, Daisy, Daisy,” but her voice was so close, close enough that Daisy could taste it, and she was just breathing her name against Daisy’s lips, and her hands were ravenous in Daisy’s hair, pulling and pushing, like she was trying desperately to get her closer, and the ‘Daisy, Daisy, Daisy’s where sounding like a spell, like if she breathed it enough, she could kiss her way into melting into Daisy and disappearing into the hunger.</p><p>All this time, Daisy thought that she was the one that was violent and she’d hated herself for it, but now Basira was holding onto her like she was fighting, and Daisy thought, somehow, that violence was a beautiful thing. Beating some bastard on the street just for the taste of someone else’s blood was an ugly thing, but here, now, where her own blood was on her love’s lips, on her tongue, this violence was righteous enough to be holy.</p><p>Basira finally pulled away, heaving breath like she was afraid she’d never breathe again. Daisy pressed their foreheads together, and she stared down at the blood staining Basira’s mouth.</p><p>“Screw the classics,” she said, and their eyes met. “And screw you,” she said, that anger still buzzing through her, “for believing in them. For believing you don’t get to be happy.”</p><p>“You’re bleeding again,” Basira said, eyes flicking down to her lips. Daisy swiped her tongue over the open wound, throbbing and raw. Basira’s eyes followed the motion.</p><p>“I’m not letting go of you,” Daisy said, and she tried her hand at soft, running her thumb over Basira’s cheek. “I’ll fight so we don’t become one of your stories.”</p><p>Basira’s lip trembled. “Okay,” she said. She blinked. She breathed. “Daisy,” she said, like she was going to say something else. She closed her eyes. “Daisy, Daisy.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Daisy asked, because this was different from the other ‘Daisy, Daisy, Daisy’s where she wasn’t supposed to talk back. This ‘Daisy, Daisy, Daisy’ meant something different, or maybe it meant the same thing all along and Daisy was only just now hearing it.</p><p>Basira opened her eyes. She stared at Daisy. Ran gentle fingers through Daisy’s hair. “I love you,” she finally said, and Daisy felt those words fill up all of her, go through her and make a home inside of her.</p><p>And she couldn’t say it, not then, because it was so much, right then. She just pulled Basira back into her, the anger gone, but replaced with a different sort of frantic buzz, and they’d crashed into each other as ferocious and violent as before.</p><p>It was only later, after dinner, after a stupid 80s horror movie. It was only when they were lying in Basira’s soft blankets and pillows, surrounded by the feel of her, the smell of her, with the night looking through the window. And Daisy was never really good with words, but Basira was running her fingers through her hair, and all of Daisy’s sharp edges were wrapped up in all of Basira’s soft lines, and it didn’t matter that Daisy was bad at words.</p><p>Basira loved her, and these words were simple enough.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>why is it that every time i write a tma fic i end it at stupid o'clock in the morning. why am i cursed in this way</p><p>anyway it's 6am and i haven't slept and the idea for this fic popped into my head, like, two days ago when the title did and i was like. that's a great title who should i write about it for and my brain was like. daisy and basira. and i was like. idk i haven't written daisy and basira before, but i missed them so i decided. why not</p><p>my laptop doesn't have those fancy backlights that light up the keyboard, and i have my lights off because it's 6am and people in my house are going to be waking up for work soon and i don't want them to know that im Like This, so for like half the last scene i was kinda flyin in the dark there. im flyin in the dark for this whole bit as well. i didn't have to tell you that, but i thought it would be fun for you to know</p><p>come visit me @peachcitt on both twitter and tumblr</p><p>p.s. i'll check for typos later. there are birds chirping right now. goodnight ily thanks for reading</p></blockquote></div></div>
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